


Stranger in a Strange Land

by testosterone_tea



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Case Fic, Discrimination, Gladstone the Dog, Homeless John, Homelessness, M/M, PTSD John
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-10
Updated: 2015-07-22
Packaged: 2018-03-22 03:45:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3713731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/testosterone_tea/pseuds/testosterone_tea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Bill Murray's dog, Gladstone are the only survivors from the patrol that came under fire, out in the desert. John comes back to London, and he and Gladstone end up living on the streets. That's where John Watson meets Sherlock Holmes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Red Planet

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys, I know this is probably not the fic you were expecting (if you were, in fact, expecting one). I just wanted to explore the idea of homeless veterans. I looked it up. Apparently there are 9000 ex-military people [living on the streets](http://www.mirror.co.uk/news/uk-news/9000-ex-service-personnel-homeless-after-2071049) in the UK (source from 2013). That's 1 in 10 homeless people. It's not just a problem in the UK, of course, but also the US (which has 50 000 homeless vets, and apparently thinks that a 33% decrease from 75 000 is excellent progress), and my own country of Canada (which has far less - possibly 1300, but still a substantial number).
> 
> It will get around to Johnlock eventually, but a lot of John and Gladstone sleeping rough will appear first.

The world was red.

John's Sig Sauer lay on the ground, dust-covered barrel just a few scant centimeters from his right hand. He wasn't as good a shot with his right hand, but when one could put a bullet through someone's eye, it didn't really matter if one's shot was off by such a marginal amount.

Or rather, when one was lying immobile on the ground bleeding out, one would take what one could get.

John's entire left upper quadrant was on fire, but John was used to pain. Pain didn't bother him as much as the fact that he couldn't bloody move. Was anyone still alive at this point? Not that it mattered, they were still pinned down. He would probably empty his life blood into the sand before anyone got to him. John decided there was no use panicking about the inevitable.

At first John thought that it was the ringing in his ears making the unhappy, high-pitched whining noise nearby, but a nudge with a rough, sand-encrusted nose indicated otherwise. John turned his head to find Bill Murray's dog beside him, snout covered in still-wet blood and sand. Bill likely dead then, if the dog was beside him.

"Gladstone," he coughed, trying to wet his cracked lips.

Gladstone knew what to do. Gladstone was an army dog, and had been trained well by Bill. John didn't order the dog to do a thing, but she still got her head under his good arm and tried to help him move. The only thing John could do to help was hook his arm around her shoulders and hang on as she tried to drag him to safety.

She couldn't drag him to safety.

She could, however, drag him far enough that he could reach his gun.

He got his hand around it, awkward as it was when he could barely move. He was already in prone position, so he looked for his nearest assailant, leaned his arm across Gladstone's back to steady it, and took a shot. Gladstone didn't move, simply allowed John to keep using her back as a sighting block.

He only had eight rounds left, so he had to make them count. There was no way for him to reload when half of his entire body didn't work.

He only managed to shoot four of them before blood loss sent him spinning into blackness.

***

The next time he opened his eyes, he was in a field hospital. The pain was still horrendous, and passing out again was a welcome relief.

The field hospital made two more appearances, as did the back of a med-evac jeep. He must be delirious, because he swore that there was a warm presence curled up beside him on the way. 

And then there was madness.

He was falling – down, down, down...

Consciousness returned slowly. John had to fight for it, struggle against the darkness and the delirium threatening to drag him down again. It was like trying to swim in treacle, but eventually, John opened his eyes and saw he was in a room with white walls, separated from the bed next to him by a flimsy blue curtain.

He wasn't awake for long before a nurse in scrubs bustled in.

"Captain Watson," she said in accented English. "How are you feeling?"

John opened his mouth and tried to say something. He coughed, and the nurse leaned over to get a cup from his bedside table. Water returned his ability to speak, however he didn't know what to say. 

A wet nose against his hand made him start, and he looked over, even that a struggle. A pair of eager brown eyes looked back at him.

"Gladstone," he said, turning his hand over to pat her snout as best he could.

"Ah, yes, the dog," said the nurse. "We were told not to separate you. The doctors said that it would be best, would help with the recovery process. It is not usual, but this is a special circumstance."

John understood.

He knew that soldiers that went through trauma improved with an animal's companionship. He'd even prescribed it himself.

"Bill Murray?" he asked, although the answer couldn't be more obvious.

"I'm sorry, Captain Watson," the nurse said, shaking her head. "You are the only survivor of the attack on your patrol."

John patted Gladstone's nose and replied, "Not the only one." 

***

He found out that he had been in Berlin for almost two weeks, and in between multiple surgeries and the added complication of an infection, he'd been out of it the entire time. The nurses told him that Gladstone had stood guard over him the throughout, and that doctors had decided then that he and Gladstone wouldn't be separated.

The day he arrived back in London, the skies were overcast and threatening rain. It was a huge change from bright open skies and the endless horizon of Afghanistan. He knew London, had been a student here, had done his residency here. But somehow, this space felt alien now, all wrong.

He found a tiny, miserable little bedsit to hole up in for a while. It was like being a spy or a secret agent – trying to blend in with this world of the ordinary, trying to pass for one of them was stressful. He felt like they could see right through him, like if they looked at him, they would see right down to his sand-blasted soul, see the people he'd shot while looking down the barrel of his Sig, see his blood-stained fingers still trying to hold someone's organs inside them.

He went to physio for a while, for his shoulder. He just couldn't handle it. The doctors were always upbeat, cheerful, and certain of his recovery. They would tell him encouraging things and smile, like they knew everything would be okay in the end. John couldn't stand them. 

John didn't want to be reassured. Grim reality was what he knew, and John knew damn well that sometimes things went wrong, and they couldn't be fixed. Knew it as he walked the streets of London by flitting through back alleyways and across empty lots rather than brave the crowded boulevards filled with people. Knew it as his dogtags clinked together as he walked, knew it as Bill Murray's dog followed him everywhere – his only by default.

Not that Gladstone loved him any less than she had adored Bill. She followed him everywhere, loyal to a fault. Sometimes, people would see her, a big German Shepherd, and remain at a cautious distance. They shied away from the danger of her, not seeing the danger of the soldier at her side. It was just as well they stayed away.

He still had his Sig. He had somehow managed to keep it with his things, the few items that remained to him. It all fit into the dusty duffel bag, a few worn out pairs of jeans and jumpers. His entire wardrobe could fit into one load at the laundromat. He could see his entire life whirling around behind the glass door, being cleaned and rinsed, however frayed.

His pension was meagre, and dwindling fast – between the rent, his food, and food for Gladstone, he hardly had enough to get by. He was told to go to a therapist, he even had one recommended to him, but the idea that anyone who hadn't been there, who hadn't had Afghanistan seep into their very pores, who hadn't seen their blood soaking into the dry earth could ever understand was impossible. The wilds of the desert, the unforgiving landscape, the glaring sun and heat and dust was looking out from behind his eyes, and someone from London would never recognise it for what it was.

He was disconnected from it all. The endless English rain was the most depressing thing in the world, and it never went away. Yet it couldn't wash away the Afghan dust.

Logically, he knew that he needed to rehabilitate, go to therapy, find his old friends and reconnect, get a job. Doctor John Watson knew these things, remembered them, but Captain John Watson couldn't bring himself to do any of them.

Gladstone didn't mind. She didn't nag him to do anything, didn't condemn him for failing, didn't judge him for his alien ways. She knew them too, after all. They were both far from home.

Eventually, it happened. John knew it was coming.

He ran out of money.

His sister offered him a place on her couch, a space to recuperate. He turned it down, and refused the mobile phone she tried to push on him. Alcohol abuse, walking out on her wife – it didn't matter, they were still elements of the everyday that still didn't make sense to him. It was all the same, people going to work, meeting up with friends, petty arguments, traffic jams – it was all the same, ordinary story of a place that no longer fit.

He and Gladstone were both wild creatures, to be honest. Blood stained their teeth.

The contents of a duffle bag were easy to pack up and to carry when he abandoned the bedsit for London's underbelly. He still had a good pair of combat boots, and he picked up an old sleeping bag from a thrift store. If there was one thing that John Watson knew, it was survival. He could survive anything.

***

"Hey, girl," John said. "This looks like a good spot."

To be fair, anyplace was a good spot when one didn't have a home. John settled down on a bench to eat the wrapped sandwich someone had given him. It didn't happen very often, but it did happen. There were kind strangers out there, however few and far between.

He unwrapped the sandwich and gave half to Gladstone. She gobbled it down quickly, in two bites. John ate his more slowly, savouring the fact that it was reasonably fresh, and that he hadn't dug it out of a garbage pile. It even had meat – and cheese. If he only had some tea to wash it down with, then that would make his day.

"Hey, move along there. You can't sit here."

John looked up slowly and regarded the person in front of him with a level gaze. It was a store clerk from the shop next door to the bench. 

"This is public property," John said.

"This bench is for paying customers," the clerk said, crossing his arms.

John raised his eyebrows. "I don't see a sign that says so. I don't even see a sign that says this bench is the property of your store. Probably because it isn't. It's city property."

"You're scaring away our customers with your dog," the clerk said. "Do you want me to get a copper in on this?"

Gladstone didn't have a leash, and her collar didn't have proper identification either. John sighed and got up. There was no use arguing with people that hated you anyway.

"I was finished sitting here anyway," he said.

John's distrust of the ordinary people of London had only increased over time. The general prejudice shown to the city's homeless, John included, had shown him the true character of London's denizens.

John had heard many insults thrown his way over the past month or so. People called him a leech on society, called him useless, and simply treated him as if he were somehow less than human. Didn't deserve respect.

One of the worst things was, John thought, that he might have been one of them, once. The real wolves of London were the businessmen in suits, the ones that no one thought to fear. 

"Come on, love, let's go," he said, and Gladstone trotted after him dutifully.

There wasn't much to do in London when one didn't have a job or money. John had just eaten, so he would be fine for a while. Some of his fellow street-livers had signs that asked for help, but John couldn't bring himself to do the same. That's why he was here in the first place, though: his inability to ask for help. 

He didn't ask for it, but sometimes he received it anyway.

He had his neighbourhood, and didn't stray far from it. Most didn't, once they were settled. He knew a few of the others well enough.

"Yo, Doc Watson!"

Billy Wiggins was leaning up against a building in his usual spot.

"Any luck?" Wiggins asked.

Wiggins had been one of the first people to find out John was new at being homeless and tried to help him out a bit. Once he had found out that John used to be a doctor, he had enlisted his help in exchange for some tips on living rough. It had been a bit different, being homeless in London. John knew his survival techniques well enough, but those were for the wilds. Survival in an urban environment worked differently.

"Sandwich," John said with a small smile. "Got chased off a bench though."

"Yeah, you know, one time I was taking a nap and someone threw water on me while I was asleep. As if I weren't wet enough with the rain already."

John shook his head.

"You got anyone?" he asked finally.

Wiggins shrugged. "Kid that won't stop scratching. Infected, but it'll probably clear up on its own."

Wiggins was a den ward for a cocaine den, and sometimes he asked John for a little medical help. Mostly simple stuff, like knowing what to do if someone OD'd or got out of control. John could hardly refuse his aid in return for the help Wiggins had given him in his early days.

It what they all did, out here. He'd received more help from people in his exact situation than anyone else out there.

"Might as well take a look," he said.

Wiggins was right, not much he could do for scratches without sterile bandages and something to clean the wounds out with. While he was passing through, he put a couple of people in the recovery position that had passed out. 

John took his own usual place out on the sidewalk, leaning against a wall with Gladstone resting against his side. There wasn't a lot to do but people-watch, as John didn't do any busking or begging. He recognized a few faces here and there as they walked by, quickly and without looking at him. 

It was around 6 that he and Gladstone went to dig through the dumpster behind the local pub. If John was lucky, he'd sometimes find half-eaten burgers or leftover fries. 

He was rooting through the garbage when he heard the door to the back of the pub open. John automatically crouched down out of sight, and Gladstone immediately fell in beside him, copying his actions. Sometimes pub owners would chase people away from their bins, and John tended to try and avoid confrontation.

"Did you do it?" a voice hissed.

"Yeah, I did it," a second replied.

"And you're sure it'll work?"

"Yeah, what did I say? Don't you trust me?"

"Not as far as I could throw you. Now remember, unless this goes off without a hitch, you won't see a single quid."

"It'll burn to the ground, I promise, Len."

"You better be sure about this."

"I am."

The door banged shut, and John raised his head. He knew that Len was the owner, but the mysterious second voice was no one he knew. Len sure sounded like he was planning some dirty business. He frowned and patted Gladstone's head absent-mindedly.

He quickly found enough for him and Gladstone to share, and they made their way back to their space, where John had stored a few flattened cardboard boxes and hidden his dufflebag. Gladstone was happy to curl up by his side and guard him in sleep, and when she was there, he had no PTSD-fueled nightmares.

Living rough was hard sometimes, but whenever he thought about it, returning to his old life, he was terrified. He might never go back now.

He and Gladstone drifted to sleep together, still comrades-in-arms.

***

It was a few days later that he heard.

"The Glass and Crow burned down the other night," Wiggins said. "Shame. I liked their onion rings."

The Crow, as most people fondly called it, was another local pub. It was a favourite among Wiggin's crew, and John mentally calculated how likely it was that they would start coming to his local pub instead now that their favourite was gone.

And then he remembered the strange conversation.

"I might have overheard something about that," John admitted. "The incriminating kind of stuff."

"Bloody 'ell, Doc Watson," Wiggins said with a low whistle. "You keep your head down. No need to get involved with all that."

And that's exactly what John intended to do, except something happened to change that.

John carried on with his day as usual, sitting in his usual spot and carrying on his usual hobby of people-watching. But that was the day that John saw the most unusual of people pop up out of the crowd and come closer.

John wouldn't have thought anything of that except for the man himself was somehow otherworldly. John couldn't say exactly why he thought that, and if asked, wouldn't have been able to put his finger on the oddity that surrounded him. 

For all he was strange, he was an exquisite creature. John watched him approach and wondered what this posh bloke could possibly want from a couple of veterans.

"You know Bill Wiggins," Posh Bloke started off, and his voice was rich and deep, and it resounded in John's chest like music.

"I do," John said. "What of it?"

"He said you might know something about a case I'm working on," Posh Bloke continued.

Ah. The arson.

"You want to know who burned the Crow down," John said, eyes narrowing.

Posh Bloke nodded, sharp gaze running over John like ice water. 

"Look, I don't want to get involved in some business dispute," John said. "Not my problem."

"Business dispute!" Posh Bloke snorted as if amused. "As if I'd bother investigating something as dull as that. No... I'm here because of a double murder."

Then, the man smiled like a maniac, and just like that, John was charmed.

That was the day that John Watson met Sherlock Holmes.


	2. Misfit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Gladstone help Sherlock break into a pub.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you all like Gladstone. I just really like German Shepherds.

2\. Misfit

John didn't expect to see the mysterious man with the sharp cheekbones again. Even people who were nice to the homeless tended to forget that they existed once they were out of sight. John had told the strange man about Len's conversation, and Posh Bloke had dashed off, without saying thank you, but not without tossing several ten quid notes at John's face.

Fifty quid in total.

So, either Posh Bloke had really wanted that information, or he didn't care how much money he threw around. Since he had literally thrown it, John thought it was likely the second option. However, he didn't have any room to complain. Nowadays, fifty quid might as well have been a thousand.

He might even have enough to get some real food. Not very much, just a couple of things. Food storage was almost impossible out here.

He got Gladstone to stay in a nearby alleyway, and although she watched him leave anxiously, she did as he said. As soon as he got into the store, he remembered why he never went in.

It was obvious he was homeless. He kept as clean as possible, but sleeping in alleyways, digging through garbage tips, and having limited access to laundromats and showers took its toll. As soon as he stepped inside, he was on the receiving end of a barrage of short-lived glares that turned into avoidance. 

He picked up some dog food for Gladstone, and a sandwich for himself, and as he was leaving, he remembered that Wiggins had mentioned a kid with infected track marks and got some rubbing alcohol and cotton balls. He pointedly ignored the fact that as he'd made his way around the store, one of the employees had started tailing him, trying to covertly keep an eye on him. It was painfully obvious, but John had found that confrontation never worked in his favour, however much it mortified him to be considered nothing more than a criminal waiting to happen.

He didn't even have a card, and so couldn't go through the self check out, having to brave the stern-faced cashier.

"Excuse me, what are you planning to do with this?" the cashier asked, holding up the rubbing alcohol with great suspicion.

"It's rubbing alcohol," John stated flatly, having no patience for interrogation from anyone.

"Yeah, I see that mate," she said. "What are you gonna do with it?"

"What do you _think_ I'm going to do with it?" he asked sharply.

"Oh, I dunno... drink it, maybe?" she said.

"Rubbing alcohol isn't meant for human consumption," John retorted bluntly. "It's made of a different type of alcohol than spirits. I really hope you're not drinking this, it could do major damage to your central nervous system."

"I'm not drinking it!" the cashier denied. "Anyway, how do you know that?"

"Well, apart from the fact that I'm a medical doctor and have a degree in biochemistry, it also says so right on the bloody label," John snapped, holding it up. "I'm using it for its intended purpose, which is to treat minor topical injuries."

"Excuse me, is there a problem here?"

One of the store's managers came to stand over the shoulder of the cashier. Seemingly emboldened, the cashier stood up straighter.

"He's harassing me," she reported smugly.

"I'm not, I'm just trying to buy something," John said, but already he could tell that this was not going to go his way.

"I'm going to have to ask you to leave."

"Only if you let me buy my groceries!" John said loudly, and already, other customers were turning to stare at the commotion.

"Please, sir, will you calm down?" the manager asked.

"You know what?" John said, growing angrier by the minute. "Fine. I won't buy my groceries here."

He left.

He was so angry, he marched down the street without realizing that Gladstone had bounded after him in pursuit. He walked for a long time, without seeing anything around him, he was just so angry, the hot rage burning in his chest like heart-burn. 

"I just wanted groceries," he said to Gladstone, feeling the anger slowly abating, but leaving behind a defeated heaviness in its place.

"This isn't the place for us, Gladstone," John said.

John found an independant market, a small one. The owner was the person manning the till, and didn't blink as John but his groceries through, not even at the rubbing alcohol.

John wanted to continue to be angry, but when he showed up at Wiggin's place with the antiseptic and some bandages, it helped. Methodically washing his hands and tending to the injuries of the young drug addict calmed him, and as he finished wrapping up the bandages, he felt better.

No one could take that from him. No matter where he was in the world, he was still Doctor Watson, and he could still help people, even the invisible citizens of the London underbelly. Especially them.

 

***  
He didn't expect to see the strange man with the long coat again.

But he remembered what the thrill of the fight was like, and he needed it. He knew that Len had been up to something untoward, and he also knew that Posh Bloke was investigating it. 

So he and Gladstone went to investigate too. John stashed his meagre possessions with Wiggins, and then set out late that night for Len's place, the _Waddling Duck_ , and waited to see what happened. He didn't know why he expected Posh Bloke to be back, or why he was bothering, but he had a feeling stirring in his gut that promised him that tonight, something would happen.

He wasn't wrong.

It was almost closing time, and there were still patrons inside. John would never have considered going inside, except for the thought that something was actually happening in his life. John didn't know what he could possibly even do to help, he just wanted to be here.

He told Gladstone to stay, and went inside.

"It's nearly closing time," the man behind the bar said.

"Sorry," John said. "I just wanted a beer."

The man frowned, then tipped his head to the side. "I know you, you're the chap always sitting with that big German Shepherd at the corner."

"Yeah," John said with a shrug.

"Well... as long as you got the quid, I'll pull you a pint," the man said, and without asking which beer he wanted, reached for a glass and did so.

John supposed he was being given the cheapest one there was, so didn't complain. Come to think of it, he did recognize the man's face. Possibly from walking back and forth to work, but also probably...

"I see you've figured it out," a voice said to his left.

John nearly dropped his pint, but managed to catch it. "Christ!"

"Careful," said Posh Bloke, and slipped onto the barstool beside him. "I see you recognize our friend the bartender."

The bartender had gone to start cleaning off empty tables, so John felt safe to reply, "I go through their rubbish bins, of course I know him."

Posh Bloke grinned and said, "Ah, but that's not how you know him, is it."

It really wasn't, but John couldn't think of where else he could have possibly seen him. He simply shrugged and took a swig of his beer. It burned its way down his throat, unfamiliar since the absence of any type of alcohol in John's life since he became homeless. John hoped that his tolerance was still alright, because he hadn't had anything to eat for a while.

"Come on, finish the pint," Posh Bloke continued. "We have work to do tonight."

"Work?" John asked, taking another long drink. "I don't even know who you are."

"You don't?" Posh Bloke looked a bit crestfallen at this. "You didn't ask Wiggins about me, then?"

"Not as such, no," John said. Though he should have, come to think of it.

"And yet here you are," Posh Bloke said musingly. "You'll do. Come on, he's shutting down."

John downed his pint, but before he could fork out the cash to pay, Posh Bloke flung down ten quid on the counter, and tugged him away. Since the bartender didn't even notice them leave, John felt a bit better about not paying himself.

As they exited the pub, Gladstone bounded up to them, wagging her tail exuberantly.

"Yes, yes, I wasn't gone that long," John said, hands stroking over her ears. 

"You're a war veteran," Posh Bloke said, looking at him.

"Yeah," John said, and then, because Posh Bloke was still looking at him expectantly, he asked, "How did you know?"

"It's the way you hold yourself, and the way you scan the area every so often, alert in a way Londoners usually aren't. You always know which ones are the most threat, and I see you pinpoint weaknesses every time you look someone over, even the ones that don't pose a threat. Your hair has grown out quite a lot, but I can see that it used to be military. Your boots, too."

"What about my boots?" asked John.

"They're regulation combat boots. There are only two type of people who wear combat boots. People who are actually in the military, and people who are wearing them to appear tougher than they are."

"How do you know I'm not the second option?" John asked.

"Everything I just said, and also your dog. She's a military dog, by her training. Not just any big dog would follow your every command, and know how to crouch behind something for cover."

"Gladstone isn't mine," John said sadly, rubbing behind her ears. "Are you girl?"

"Come on, get behind this bin, we've got to wait for Mr. McTavish to leave."

"Wait, who's he?" John asked.

"Len McTavish's son, Adam," Posh Bloke said. "You know him from somewhere. Think. I know it's difficult for ordinary people, but this is just extreme."

"Git," John said, shaking his head. "Wait, I don't even know your name!"

"Ah, there he is!" Posh Bloke exclaimed in an excited whisper. "He's leaving... yes, good. Locking up for the night."

As soon as Adam McTavish was around the corner, Posh Bloke leapt to his feet and went to the back door. John and Gladstone followed at a more sedate pace, and John watched as he fiddled with two long, thin metal objects.

"Lockpicks?" John asked with a laugh. "As if those actually..."

The door clicked open, and Posh Bloke dashed through.

"... work," John finished, then followed. "Wait, do you know if this place has an alarm? Or surveillance?"

"What do you think I was doing in here earlier?" Posh Bloke scoffed. "I was making sure that there weren't alarms and cameras. The one in the corner is obviously fake."

"What are you doing in here, anyway?" John asked.

"The police, as usual, are focusing on the wrong thing," Posh Bloke said, rolling his eyes. "Obviously, Maggie Jones didn't burn down her own establishment. There are plenty of other charges to bring her up on, but the two deaths of the people locked inside her walk-in refrigerator weren't her fault. Yet. She was probably going to kill them at some point, but not in a way that would bring a ton of police officers snooping around."

"But Len didn't actually do it, he asked that other chap to do it," John said. "Wouldn't you find what you're looking for at the actual crime scene?"

"Nope, it's here."

And then, Gladstone rushed off, rounded the end of the bar and went behind. John followed, frowning as he watched her start pawing at the rubber mat underneath her feet. It was one of those ones bar owners put down for traction behind the bar. John lifted it up and found that there was a trapdoor, probably to a cellar underneath to store barrels to feed beer up to the taps.

"It's just beer, girl," he said.

"I don't think it is," Posh Bloke said, and lifted the door.

Gladstone rushed down immediately, and Posh Bloke followed her, leaving John to be the sensible one to grab a torch from behind the counter. He was right, there were a lot of kegs down here with feeds up to the bar. The cellar walls were all made of brick. Gladstone was scratching at it eagerly. As soon as John turned the torch toward him, Posh Bloke started feeling the wall with his fingers. 

Just before Posh Bloke found the loose brick that revealed the cache behind it, John remembered all at once two things: Gladstone had been trained to find narcotic substances and Adam McTavish was one of the occasionals at Wiggin's drug den. He looked different, all cleaned up, but John remembered him now.

"Is there something about _The Crow_ that you're not telling me?" John asked.

"Very good, John," Posh Bloke said. "You've put it together. Faster than the police at any rate. _The Crow_ is the front for a drug cartel. Wiggins should have told you that, and maybe he would have if you'd bothered to find out what my name was."

"You certainly are one for dramatics," John said. "Fine, will you bloody well tell me your name, you posh bastard?"

"Sherlock Holmes, the world's one and only Consulting Detective. I invented the job," Sherlock said, looking pleased with himself.

John was marvelling at what a strange man he'd discovered when there was a sound from upstairs, and someone yelled, "Hey, I know someone's in here. Show yourself!"

"It's McTavish!" Sherlock hissed. "We need to leave."

As he said this, he quickly searched the area and found a metal panel. He opened it, revealing the switchboard for the tavern. He flicked them all off, cutting power to the lights. John grudgingly admitted that that was a clever move on Sherlock's part.

"But you didn't find anything besides his drug stash," John said. "Anyway, you can't use it as evidence if you break and enter."

"I'll find more evidence later. Ongoing investigation you know. Come, John, let's get out of here," Sherlock edged toward the stairs back up and began quickly and silently making his way up them.

Gladstone followed right at his heels, and John brought up the rear.

McTavish was trying to turn the lights on and cursing, having not realized that the reason his lights weren't working was because of a breaker switch. John and Sherlock started sneaking towards the still-open door.

"Oi!"

Without thinking about it, John hand-signalled Gladstone.

Gladstone immediately rushed up and jumped the bar counter, knocked McTavish clear off his feet. John grabbed Sherlock's arm and dragged him out the door, Gladstone close behind them. She hadn't actually hurt McTavish, although getting knocked over by a seventy pound animal was terrifying enough. They ran as fast as they could, and it wasn't until they were several blocks away that John realized he still had Sherlock's sleeve clenched in his hand.

Embarrassed, he let it drop, and then looked up at Sherlock.

Sherlock was grinning and patting Gladstone, who looked mightily pleased with herself. She'd been more useful than she'd been in several months, unless one counted making sure a sad, maladjusted veteran didn't blow his own brains out.

John laughed, and then Sherlock looked over at him, face still flushed with all the excitement, and laughed back. The two of them giggled for a little, and then Sherlock straightened up.

"Dinner?" he asked, looking suddenly unsure of himself.

John sighed and looked down at himself.

"I'm not exactly dressed for dinner," he said ruefully, patting his layered clothing self-consciously.

"There's a Chinese place open till 2 near here," Sherlock said slowly. "They don't mind who comes in, just that they have business. They won't even mind Gladstone."

John hesitated, but he hadn't had Chinese in months. Years even.

And Sherlock was such an endlessly fascinating figure.

"Alright," John conceded, shaking his head. "Fine."

Sherlock beamed.

The Waving Cat was a tiny little place that John normally would have overlooked. The lights shining through the paned glass were dim, and the building narrow. John stepped through and looked around at the little booths with red seat cushions and paper lanterns. 

An older woman bustled up to them, not at all unwelcoming in spite of the late hour. 

"You are back!" she said to Sherlock. "Do you want your usual order?"

"Two of them, please," Sherlock said.

She nodded and left, not commenting on the dog or John's state of dress.

Sherlock lapsed into awkward silence, looking up at John occasionally. John just smiled, too tired to try and find something to talk about. Really, the two of them hardly knew one another, and getting chased by an angry bartender together hardly made them mates. Sherlock fidgeted, and finally broke his silence.

"It's psychosomatic, you know," he said quickly.

John looked up and frowned.

"Your limp," Sherlock said. "You had one earlier, and I know it was unaffected. You're too proud to pretend a limp for sympathy. But as soon as we broke into the pub, it stopped. And it hasn't yet made a reappearance."

John blinked at him in astonishment and realized he was right. John tried to forget about the limp. There was nothing much that he could do about it, especially without proper therapy.

"You were shot though," Sherlock continued. "The presence of the limp suggests that your injury was psychologically traumatic."

John was stupefied. Luckily, the food showed up, and he started shoveling chow mein into his mouth to avoid having to say anything.

The restaurant owner even brought out a dog bowl filled with rice and chicken for Gladstone, and John watched affectionately as she gulped it down.

"She's not yours you said," Sherlock said, hardly touching his food.

"No," John said softly.

"Her owner is dead then, aren't they," Sherlock said. "You were fairly close, and Gladstone went through the same thing as you did. It's why you're so loyal to one another."

John just shrugged, the subject making him clench his left hand hard.

"Shoulder," Sherlock continued. "You were shot in the shoulder. Your physical injury makes it hard to get a job."

John half-smiled then. While he did need his arm to hold steady for being a surgeon, he was still qualified to be a GP. He still didn't say anything, wondering what it was that made this strange man tick.

He finished up his food, and then said, "I suppose I should get going."

Sherlock looked surprised at this and said, "You know, you could come back with me."

John considered this, and then shook his head.

"Not now."

"But..."

"I didn't say not ever," John said. "Just not now."

As he was getting up, Sherlock tossed him a fortune cookie.

"Thanks," John said, then added. "Oh, and I didn't actually introduce myself properly, you know. It's Dr. Watson, just for the record."

"Doc Watson," Sherlock said. "Wiggins said, I just didn't think he meant you were an actual doctor, and it wasn't just a nickname. An army doctor. How interesting." He paused, then continued, "If you ever need to find me, just ring up at 221b Baker Street. That's where I'll be found."

"Will be?" John asked in confusion.

"Accidentally burned a hole in the wall of my place at Montague," Sherlock said, cheerfully unrepetent. "I'll see you later, Dr. Watson."

"I'll see you later, then, Sherlock Holmes," John said, and he and Gladstone slipped out and into the night.

John opened the fortune cookie.

_The rest of your life is right in front of you._

Obviously, John thought with a snort.

But then again, maybe it was.


	3. Beyond this Horizon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Gladstone go find 221b Baker street. Where could this lead them?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all, John and Gladstone are back! Sorry the update took a bit longer than I planned. Finals week, you know. I'm done that now, so look forward to hopefully more regular updates. This is sort of the end of what I think of as Part 1. John is moving on to Part 2 of his life with Sherlock and Gladstone. Hope you enjoy!

The next day, John showed up at Wiggin's place, only to be hurriedly dragged inside.

"You tit," Wiggins said. "What have you been up to, Doc Watson? I thought I told you to keep your head down, not poking your nose into the first real trouble that pops up!"

"What?" John asked.

Wiggins leaned in. "I just heard from a couple of people that went by around Len's this morning. The coppers are there, and Len's boy says he was broken into last night! Not only that, he says that a man and his dog were the ones inside!"

Well shit.

"We didn't take anything," John protested.

"We, meaning you and Sherlock Holmes," Wiggins said. "You know, Doc, I think you're made for trouble."

"What does that mean?" John asked defensively.

"Only people looking for trouble keep up with his like," Wiggins said. "I told you to keep your head down because his lordship has the connections to keep his nose clean, where you don't. He'll always get off scot free, where you'll end up in jail faster than you can blink."

"But you help him, don't you?" John asked. "Sherlock knows who you are."

"Yeah, for a price I do!" Wiggins waved his arms. "And if things get hairy, I get out! Cause nobody is going to bail my arse out of jail if I end up there. And no one is going to bail you out either."

John frowned uncomfortably. There was a truth to that which he hadn't really thought about in the thrill of actually interacting with the world again. 

"Would someone bail him out?" John asked.

"He thinks he's above the law," Wiggins said with a shrug. "And you know what, he very well might be. But not you and me. We're below the law."

"I don't think I quite understand what you mean," John said, hand clenching.

"People have to believe you are an actual human being before they treat you like one," Wiggins said. "Now don't go out there for a while. And don't go around Len's. They are on the lookout for you and your girl now."

John put an arm around Gladstone protectively. Gladstone was very conspicuous, and even if someone didn't know about his connection to the break-in, they might report him for having an unleashed dog. And if they arrested John, they would take her away from him. John didn't like to think of what would happen then.

***

John tried all day to forget about Sherlock Holmes. Wiggins was right – he couldn't afford to get caught doing something illegal. No one would bail him out.

He kept telling himself that all he had to do was lay low for a while until the cops forgot about the break-in. Surely they had better things to do than look out for a homeless man and a dog who hadn't even stolen anything?

John quickly grew bored of staying in the den with Wiggins, even if he did occasionally patch up some wounds. The antiseptic was already getting low – life on the streets could be rough.

John felt like two days of hiding out were all he could handle. He itched to get back out, and even worse – he wanted to find Sherlock again. He had his address even. All he had to do was offer to help out with the case, and he had an in. He didn't have to do anything illegal – he could be a look out, or a spy, that sort of thing. 

That's how he justified sneaking out close to ten at night, Gladstone at his heels, taking all the back ways to Baker street to avoid cops.

221b Baker street was a neat little place tucked in between another apartment building and a sandwich shop. John frowned, looking up at it. Surely the enigmatic Sherlock Holmes didn't live in a place like this? But it was the only address he had, so he rang the buzzer, and then clenched his arms nervously behind his back as he waited. 

Sherlock had said to come find him, but now that he was here, he wasn't so sure that Wiggins wasn't right. Gladstone sat down at his side and waited too, tongue lolling out. She wasn't nervous at all, in spite of John's worry.

The door opened a second later, and a woman who looked to be about sixty opened the door.

"Oh hello," she said. "Come in dear. You must be one of Sherlock's irregulars."

"Um... I... yes?" John said, not sure what she meant by that.

"Oh, and you have a friend!" she exclaimed, leaning down to look at Gladstone. "I'm sure I have some canned dogfood around somewhere, just let me check... oh, you can go on up if you like."

The door at the top of the stairs was slightly ajar, and John started up the stairs, Gladstone following. John knocked lightly at the door.

"Who is it?" a voice demanded imperiously from the other side.

John pushed the door open, and Sherlock perked up upon seeing him. "Ah, John. I was wondering when you would turn up."

John went to step through and came to a sudden halt at the sight of another man already in the room. He was tall, with greying hair, and an easy-going air. He frowned at John's appearance and John frowned right back.

"That's a big dog," the man said, nodding at Gladstone. "Have a leash for it?"

"Shush, Lestrade, don't bother my network," Sherlock said, waving a hand in his direction. "Why don't you sit down, John."

The man called Lestrade huffed and rolled his eyes, but didn't say anything. John came in and sat gingerly on the edge of the couch. Gladstone followed him in and curled up next to the end. John looked the Lestrade chap over, but couldn't tell much, apart from the fact he was particularly interested in upholding the law. 

"Look, Sherlock," Lestrade redirected his attention to Sherlock. "I know you've been investigating on your own, and I need to know what's going on. You wouldn't believe what my team and I have found in the burnt out building."

"I certainly would," Sherlock said dryly. "I do know who Maggie Jones is, after all."

So he was also interested in the fire at _The Crow_? Possibly a fire inspector or...

John started to get a niggling feeling that this wasn't a good place for him to be right now.

"I can have you banned from crime scenes, you know," Lestrade said. "Come on, help us out. It's interesting, and I can let you see the photos from the scene."

"I already have photos of my own," Sherlock said. "Anyway, Anderson took them. They're probably crap."

"Sherlock," Lestrade growled in frustration.

John tried to keep very still as definitely-a-cop Lestrade and Sherlock had an argument that sounded a lot like a petulant five year old arguing with an authority figure. Why had he come here? And why did he have the bad luck of arriving just when a cop was visiting Sherlock? Although, it sounded like Wiggins was right, Sherlock did have some sway with them. He probably wouldn't be arrested, at least seriously. John, on the other hand, could very well end up in a bad situation.

Lestrade and Sherlock got into an argument, while John looked around the flat. It had a home-y feel in spite of the clutter, and was very odd. There were all sorts of strange books on the shelf about poisons, chemistry, old murder cases, and bee-keeping. There were two squat chairs facing each other, and John found he rather liked them, wishing he'd sat down in one of them instead. Beyond that, the kitchen was covered in tubes and pipes, a microscope, and a bunsen burner. Interesting.

Lestrade and Sherlock eventually managed to snipe at each other long enough that they reached some sort of agreement. Sherlock agreed he would come look at the crime scene as long as he could bring his own assistant, and Lestrade agreed he would keep Anderson (whoever that was) off the case, but made no promises about Donovan (even more mysteriously).

Right before he left, he looked at John again and frowned. "I could swear I heard someone say something earlier about a man with a big dog, but I can't remember what it was."

John just looked at him, and Lestrade shook his head and departed, muttering under his breath.

"Excellent, John," Sherlock said. "I was hoping you would show up and I wouldn't have to send Wiggins for you."

"Er... why?"

"Well, you heard what I just said, didn't you?" Sherlock said. "I need an assistant. Anderson won't work with me, and he's incompetent anyway. This works out perfectly."

"But... I'm not a detective," John said. "Will they even let me on the crime scene?"

"Or course," Sherlock said, as if the idea hadn't even crossed his mind. "Why wouldn't they?"

John wasn't entirely certain how to explain that one. Not if Sherlock didn't already know why that might be a problem.

"I think your friend Lestrade might have something to say about letting a homeless man and a dog wander around your crime scene," John finally said.

"Friend?" Sherlock asked, blinking. "Not really a friend when the only time he calls me is when he can't solve a crime. Not that I need a friend. Come, John, there is much to prepare. We need to go to the crime scene first thing tomorrow."

"But –"

"Yes, yes, you'll need some clothes and things. We'll get that, no trouble at all."

"But – "

"And Gladstone, too, of course."

"Wait –"

"First thing's first. Into the shower."

Before John really knew what was happening, Sherlock was bustling him onto his feet and down the hall to the toilet. The woman from before came up just at that moment with a dog bowl full of food, and Gladstone ignored them in favour of gobbling down her dinner. John was unceremoniously pushed into the bathroom, had a towel shoved into his hands, and the door closed on him.

"Don't come out until you're clean enough to do surgery," Sherlock instructed through the door.

John wasn't entirely sure how he felt about this, but now that he was presented with the option of not only a chance to clean himself, but an actual hot shower in which he could take as much time as needed, he didn't think he could resist. Besides, Gladstone was eating right now. She wouldn't mind if he took a little while.

He stripped down quickly, piling his clothes in the middle of the room as far away from anything else as possible. Half of it was because his clothes were filthy and possibly had lice, but the other was that he found an odd-looking experimental contraption set up on the bathroom counter, and didn't want the clothes he might end up wearing again to get contaminated with a potentially biohazardous material.

John checked the shower as well, just to be sure, before turning it to its actual purpose.

That was heavenly. Just the fact he had hot water was excellent, but the fact it was also sluicing away layers of grime was wonderful. There were a bunch of posh-looking bottles with shampoo and soap in them that smelled of sandalwood. He scrubbed his mess of hair out at least five times and was thrilled to feel the squeak of cleanliness.

He finished scrubbing and then just stood under the hot water for a while, waiting for the hot water to run out before it forced him to leave the tub. The towel was thick and fluffy, and he wrapped it around him.

He realized that while he'd been in the shower, his clothes had been spirited away, and a red robe was neatly folded waiting for him. 

He came out into the living room in the robe, and Sherlock looked at him and announced, "Haircut and a shave required immediately."

John had grown a bit of a beard from lack of razors out on the street. He didn't mind it much, as it kept his face reasonably warm in cold night weather. 

"My face will be cold," he protested. 

"I shall get you a scarf," Sherlock shot back, and sat him down at the kitchen table.

"Where's Gladstone?" John asked.

"You're not the only one getting a good wash," Sherlock said dryly.

Gladstone wasn't really one for baths, so John wondered how he had managed to accomplish this feat. Gladstone didn't do anything that she didn't want to, and not many people wanted to argue with a seventy pound animal with big teeth.

Sherlock actually got out a straight razor and applied proper lather to John's face. John wasn't sure why he trusted Sherlock with an incredibly sharp instrument next to his face. Sherlock had a sure and steady hand, and John came to the sudden, sharp realization that his own hand wasn't steady enough to do the job Sherlock's were doing.

Sherlock took out an electric razor and sheered away the hair that had grown rather longer than John liked while he hadn't had access to scissors. One time, John had hacked it off with a knife, which hadn't done much good and was painful besides.

Sherlock finished and proclaimed, "There!" in a satisfied voice.

John raised his hands to touch his face and hair. His hair was once again military standard length, as if he'd gone to the military barber rather than a posh bloke with expensive taste in shampoo. His face was smooth and tingled slightly from the aftershave Sherlock had slapped on afterward. He was clean and groomed once more.

He almost felt like a new man. 

He knew he couldn't be, was just the same old John Watson who lived on the streets who had PTSD, depression, and a psychosomatic limp. But just the fact he had gone through a bit of a whirlwind revolution made him feel like he'd been recreated.

There was a noise on the stairs, and Gladstone bounded up them, looking all sleek and clean as well. John knelt down the hug her, and she wagged her tail. Two people followed her up the stairs.

"Holy, Doc Watson, is that what you really look like?" Wiggins asked.

"Oh, he does clean up nicely, doesn't he," the woman from before gushed.

"Yes, Mrs. Hudson, that's very nice. He is my new assistant," Sherlock said, seeming pleased with himself.

John was a bit overwhelmed not only with the attention, but by the idea that he now owed this strange man something for his generosity. John hadn't asked for all this, and now he wondered if he was expected to do something in exchange for all this. He got a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach.

"I'll get some biscuits and tea," Mrs. Hudson said, and bustled back out.

"I'll see you later, Doc Watson," Wiggins said. "You've got something good going on here. Forget what I said earlier."

John stood frozen, and Sherlock Holmes prattled at him as he dashed around, talking a million miles an hour about the case. John wasn't sure what half of it was about, but he wasn't really hearing what Sherlock said anyway. There was a feeling of panic expanding in his chest. He turned to look at Sherlock and instead caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror above the mantel.

That wasn't him.

John Watson looked like an alien, with his short hair, smooth face, and posh silk robe. John didn't know who that man was anymore, and he felt such a strong sense of disassociation that he had to look away again. Whoever he was, the image in the mirror lied. It wasn't him anymore.

"I can't –" John said, suddenly shaking his head and stumbling toward the door.

Gladstone put her ears forward as if on alert and chased him close on his heels as he rushed down the stairs. He struggled with the lock, got the door open, and stopped. It was cold out, the night air of London chilling and damp. He wasn't wearing his layers of clothes, and even his face felt oddly cold after its shearing.

He couldn't go out there. Holmes had made him look like one of them, had taken away his street identity with his dirty clothes, long hair, and beard. He couldn't go back on the street like this, he would die. He didn't even know where his shoes wet, and his bare feet could feel the scritch of gravel beneath his soles. 

He sat down on the stair in despair. Gladstone came up beside him, whining in concern, putting half her body onto his lap. John put his arms around her and hugged her, burying his face in her fur. She licked his ear.

"John," a subdued voice said from behind him.

John didn't say anything, but he could feel the presence of Sherlock behind him, loitering in the doorway at a safe distance.

"I'm not going to make you go with me," Sherlock said, sounding unsure of himself. "But... I would like it if you would."

"I'm not me anymore," John said. "I think you've taken over my life, and you've only been in it a few days."

"It's always been your life," Sherlock said. "Bad things happen, I know. There's always a way back. I know you miss your old life, and I know equally that you will never get it back. But John, there's a battlefield out there, out on the streets of London. It needs soldiers, too. I can show it to you, if you'll let me."

"Bad things?" John laughed. "This is no minor thing that I can just get rid of. As if you'd know."

Sherlock, rather than answering verbally, came down and sat beside him. He unbuttoned the cuff of his sleeve and rolled it up. John looked, and then stared. The whole expanse of his pale forearm was scarred with needlemarks.

"I chose it for myself, I know," Sherlock said. "Didn't make it less bad, you know. How do you think I know Wiggins, John? I made it back out, and I didn't do it by myself."

John didn't know what to say, all he knew was that his insides felt too big for his skin, and it was bursting to get out. He took several deep breaths, because there wasn't anything he could do right now besides live past this individual moment. It was difficult.

"I found your Sig," Sherlock continued. "It only has one bullet loaded. I unloaded it. When I was 26, I OD'd on speedball. It wasn't an accident."

"You survived."

"Wiggins called an ambulance, Lestrade came to visit me in hospital, and my brother put me in rehab for months. I didn't do it myself."

"So you're saying I need you."

"Well, you have Gladstone," Sherlock said, with a slight laugh. Gladstone looked up and thumped her tail at the sound of her name. "I'm just saying, it would help."

"Why me? And why you?" John asked. "Out of all the homeless people in London, why did you decide to help me?"

"I can admit to being selfish," Sherlock said. "I want you to solve crimes with me. I'm already brilliant, you know, but with you, I think I could be better."

"The battlefields of London, you said," John murmured.

"Yes," Sherlock said. "It's a twisted place, and we've both already been there."

"Alright," John said. "I guess it can't hurt to try."

Sherlock smiled.

"I can't say it will be easy," John warned him.

"John, if I wanted easy, I wouldn't be me."

They stayed on the front step of 221b until it started raining, and they both rushed inside again. John made them tea. John wasn't sure, but he thought it might be the start of something.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This isn't the end of John's involvement with the homeless network, or Wiggins.


	4. Between Planets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John tries to settle into 221b, and is immediately swept off on his first case as Sherlock's assistant. John meets the Yarders, they investigate an arson, and Gladstone discovers something.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been a bit busy, and I had most of this written for a while before finishing it. Sorry everyone! I will be updating more regularly now, hopefully once a week. This might take a bit of a turn for the morbid.

Sleeping in a bed again was strange.

Even stranger was that John couldn't get to sleep. He was more warm and comfortable than he'd been in months, and he couldn't fall asleep. Downstairs, the sounds of Sherlock pacing around was apparent, but the sound wasn't what was preventing sleep. John turned over, only to turn over again and sigh. He was safe, and Sherlock was downstairs, and Gladstone was...

Gladstone was sleeping outside his door.

With a tired groan, John got to his feet and padded over to the door. He opened it, and Gladstone looked up at him and grinned, her tail thumping against the floor.

"Well, come on then," John said with a gesture of his hand.

Gladstone jumped to her feet and loped over to the bed. She sniffed it, and apparently satisfied that John's smell was sufficiently strong, jumped onto it and curled up. 

"Shove over," John grumbled, and got back into the bed.

Gladstone rested her head on his hip, and John closed his eyes. That was better. Gladstone was guarding him now, and he could rest...

OOooOO

"Don't get used to this, I'm not your housekeeper!" a voice from downstairs said.

John blinked awake, and Gladstone sat up, tail wagging. Apparently she recognized Mrs. Hudson's voice as well. She jumped off the bed and went to the door, looking back over her shoulder at John pleadingly.

"Alright, okay, I'm coming," John said, rolling out of bed.

Sometime in the night, Sherlock had come in, hung a robe on the door, left some slippers by John's bed, and left again. Gladstone hadn't woken him up, so John could only guess whether Gladstone trusted him, or he'd been quiet enough not to wake her. He slipped the slippers on, and with some trepidation, picked up the robe. 

Silk, dark red, smelled of a mixture of bergamot and sandalwood, and was several inches too long for John's frame. John didn't have a robe of his own, and he couldn't show up downstairs in his pants, so he put it on. At least it was comfortable, but it felt so odd and ill-fitting. It would have to do for now.

Gladstone was actually pawing at the door, impatient for John to finish dressing. She was used to action, and soldiers flinging their clothes on as fast as possible. This dawdling was getting in the way of breakfast, as far as she was concerned.

"Good point," he said.

He was hungry, and it looked as if he would be fed, so staying up here would be silly. He eyed the door warily. This wasn't a situation that he was used to, eating with people he barely knew. In the army, it hadn't been hard, not when the familiarity of military routine bonded them all together. John felt like he wasn't really supposed to be here, that he was intruding somehow, and the anxiety sat in his gut like a weight.

Slowly, he opened the door. As soon as the gap was wide enough, Gladstone shot through it and bounded down the stairs. Mrs. Hudson exclaimed downstairs, and John had no doubt that she was being scratched behind the ears, and perhaps slipped a piece of bacon for her enthusiastic greeting.

Everyone loved dogs. If only the same could be said of weary soldiers.

John took the steps one at a time, the limp in his leg making his progress down awkward. He paused again at the bottom, took a deep breath, and went into the kitchen. He was right, Gladstone was already lying underneath the table, chewing on something happily. She looked up at his entrance, and both Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson followed suit.

"There you are," Sherlock said. "Hurry and eat, we have a crime scene to go see."

John approached the table and sat down. He blinked hard as he looked at the spread before him. There were nice fat sausages, perfectly golden brown, baked beans, fried eggs, and even some fried tomatoes. John could hardly think of what to say as Mrs. Hudson put a full plate in front of him. She had made him breakfast.

Inexplicably, his throat suddenly felt tight, and he blinked hard to stop tears from welling up. He couldn't remember the last time somebody had done something this nice for him, had thought he was worth doing something nice for.

"Thank you," he said with difficulty.

"Hurry, John," Sherlock said, jumping up and pacing around.

"Oh, shush, Sherlock, sit down and have some tea," Mrs. Hudson scolded him.

There was tea as well, and John poured himself a cup and added milk. He was feeling overwhelmed again, and he almost started hyperventilating before a warm weight settled across his feet. Gladstone had sensed his distress and come over to ground him. He breathed hard and kept eating.

"I don't have any clothes," John felt he needed to point out.

His only clothes were not only filthy, but threadbare. He had to dress in layers in order to make an outfit that actually kept him somewhat warm. He didn't even have socks.

"Oh, I had some clothes delivered for you," Sherlock said, waving a hand.

John looked up at him and frowned. 

"You... " John swallowed and said. "You shouldn't buy me so many things."

"It's not that many things," Sherlock said. "Anyway, you're paying me back with your crime scene assistance later, so it's fine."

"My crime scene assistance?" John shook his head, wondering when he'd ended up in a dream world like this one. "About that, I don't even know what you want me to do!"

"Keep the officers from being unbearably annoying, deal with crying people, and persuade Lestrade to give me more cases should suffice," Sherlock replied, already bored and looking through the newspaper.

John still didn't know what was expected of him, so he simply shrugged and dug into his breakfast. It was a proper fry up, and he wasn't certain that, after all this time of half-starvation, he'd even be able to finish it. Once he'd gulped the majority of it down, he looked at Sherlock, wondering what he could be thinking.

"Well, get dressed," Sherlock said, waving a hand at him imperiously.

"How did you know my size?" John asked. "They probably won't fit."

Sherlock just raised his eyebrows, then pointed at a package on the couch. John sighed, got up, and grabbed the package. It didn't feel like an excessive amount of clothing, at least. He went up to what he was tentatively referring to in his head as "his" room and shut the door.

Inside the package was two sets of clothing, a three pack of pants, socks and vests, and a pack of razors, deoderant, and shampoo. John sighed in relief. It looked like Sherlock had dropped by M&S sometime early in the morning. He was just glad it was nothing like what Sherlock was wearing. He looked like he was wearing a suit more appropriate for a business meeting than going to work with the police.

There was also a pair of jeans and a pair of trousers to choose from, two collared button-ups, and a jumper. It was quite adequate for now, so John quickly got dressed and went back downstairs.

"Ah, John," Sherlock said. "Lestrade just phoned, let's go."

John almost asked about shoes, as his worn out combat boots were on their last legs, but pride made him keep his mouth shut. But even as he went to get them, he realized that there was a pair of brown brogues by the door waiting for him. He looked at Sherlock, who simply gave another impatient gesture.

"Come on, John, if we don't get to the crime scene soon, Anderson may show up and ruin everything."

How one person could possibly ruin everything John didn't know, but he was eager to find out what could possibly be in store for him.

Walking down the sidewalk, it was already apparent how his changed appearance changed how people saw him. John had never been so happy to have indifference directed at him rather than scorn, and in some cases, outright hostility. He realized he was being rather quiet once they found a cab, immersed in reflections of his life.

"Oi, mate, I can't let that dog in the car," the driver said through the window.

"She's a PTSD therapy dog," Sherlock answered smoothly. "For a veteran wounded in the field."

"A wounded vet?" the driver asked, turning in his seat to look at John. "Him?"

"Captain John Watson, 5th Northumberland Fusiliers," Sherlock said proudly, as if knowing John were some sort of great honour.

"Right, then, get in," the driver said with a shrug. 

John let Gladstone sit across his lap, and off they went. The crime scene awaited them.

 

***

As soon as John stepped out of the taxi, he seriously considered getting right back in and going back to Baker street. There weren't that many cops, he tried to reassure himself. And they were Sherlock's co-workers, and they weren't inclined to harass people that they didn't know were only recently no longer homeless.

Sherlock and Gladstone didn't give him much of a chance to retreat, both of them dashing off toward the crime scene. John rushed to keep up, his limp keeping him from catching up right away. The man from the night before, Lestrade, looked up at their staggered approach.

"Sherlock!" he admonished. "What did you do now? Why do you have that homeless guy's dog?"

"Gladstone," John called, voice rough.

Gladstone stopped mid-bound and bolted back to his side immediately. She kept pace with him as they both made their way to Sherlock's side. Lestrade looked them both over.

"Who's this?" Lestrade demanded. "Sherlock, you can't just bring people to the crime scene! This is police access only, and I'm stretching the rules even letting you on!"

"This is my assistant, Doctor John Watson," Sherlock said. "He's a veteran, and this is Gladstone, his service dog."

Lestrade reached out and shook his hand.

"Sorry if I'm being abrupt," Lestrade said. "It's been a rough morning, and I haven't been able to make hide nor hair of this crime scene. Sherlock is my consultant, but I had no idea he had an assistant."

"He didn't until last night," John replied.

Lestrade turned to Sherlock and sighed. "Really, Sherlock?" He turned back to John. "Not that I'm surprised that Sherlock would do something like this, but what did he do to get you to come along with him, kidnap you off the street?"

John froze and stopped breathing momentarily. Lestrade probably hadn't meant it seriously, but that was precisely what had happened. Lestrade, sensing something off, suddenly took a closer look at John.

"Oh, I've put my foot in it now," Lestrade groaned. "You're the chap from last night, aren't you. And that's the very same dog that I complained about not having a leash."

"You don't have to worry she'll ever do anything to hurt anyone or get in the way," John said quickly. "She's a well-trained service dog. She saw combat in Afghanistan – nothing rattles her."

"And I suppose that means that you also saw combat, then," Lestrade said.

"Well deduced, Lestrade, but if we could get back to the matter at hand," Sherlock interrupted.

Lestrade looked as if he wanted to ask more questions about John's involvement with Sherlock, but returned to the crime scene. He beckoned them both over, and they made their way across to a building that was mostly rubble. Half of a brick wall was still standing, and a few wooden supports were charred black.

"Careful," Lestrade said. "This place is probably going to fall apart. Fire did a good job of wiping out evidence.

John knew enough about pubs, having been a dishwasher in one as a teen, and could tell from the blackened layout that they were standing near the entrance to the kitchen, and that the walk-in fridge was beyond that. He was surprised to find that there was another section of the restaurant with hooks and what would have been an immaculate condition.

"Was this a butchery?" John asked, voice gruff with disuse. "Didn't think _the Crow_ did butchery."

"John's right, it didn't," Sherlock said, pacing around the blackened room. "I'm sure, Lestrade, that you questioned the owner, Maggie Jones?"

"I did," Lestrade said. "She claims that she had no enemies and can't think of who could possible want to burn her restaurant down. However, not only have we found clear signs this was an arson, but we happen to know that Maggie Jones was definitely running drugs out of this restaurant, if not currently, at least in the past."

"It was current, alright," John said, shaking his head, remembering all the young addicts he's seen and treated in Wiggin's den.

Lestrade looked at him sharply. "You don't –"

Sherlock snorted. "Don't be silly, Lestrade. John obviously doesn't do any drugs. First off, he's a doctor. Second, you know the signs of addiction as well as I do, and John is perfectly clean. John sometimes helped street addicts with problems like overdoses and infections."

"Yes, and they're going to be quite put out that someone burned down their favourite dealer's business," Lestrade said with a sigh. "I should probably get narcotics involved in this."

As Lestrade and Sherlock began discussing the drug situation in London, John took a closer look at some of the butchery equipment. There were several big knives of varying use hanging off a magnet on the wall, separate from the knives used in everyday cooking. There was also a drain underneath for cleaning.

John got a funny twinge in his stomach.

For a pub that didn't do any butchery for the restaurant section of the pub, this equipment and set-up spoke of much use. Some of the knives had chips in them from use, and when John tested the edge of one of the blades with his thumb, it was honed to a sharp point.

"Sherlock," he said quietly. "You might want to check the delivery order for this pub, but I don't think that this butchery was used for animals."

Sherlock stopped mid-sentence and looked at John.

"But it was used," John continued, swallowing. "To butcher _something_."

Sherlock came over and inspected the room as well. He leaned down toward the grate at the bottom, then got down on his stomach to actually sniff at it.

"Old blood," Sherlock said. "If you can get a sample, test it for human."

Lestrade looked at them both in dawning horror.

"Oh, this is some Sweeney Todd shite, isn't it?" Lestrade moaned and closed his eyes. "Christ. I need more coffee. Let Donovan know about the blood."

Lestrade stumbled off of the crime scene, apparently in search of more caffeine sustenance. John remembered there was a cafe just around the corner to acquire it. As he left, a tall, black woman came in, frowning as she set eyes on him.

"Oi, freak. You aren't allowed to bring pets."

At first, John thought she meant him and bristled defensively, but then he remembered that Gladstone was also poking around the ruins. She was sniffing the grate and whining in distress, pawing at the drain.

"She's a service dog," Sherlock replied quickly. "She can help out with the case."

"And your friend here?"

"Ex-military doctor," John said. "John Watson."

She eyed him up and then said, "Sergeant Donovan, with the Met. The boss told me you had something to tell me about blood?"

"Yes," Sherlock said. "Which Anderson should have noticed right away, but instead he insisted on taking pictures of that corner, for no apparent reason."

"There were markings on the wall!" came another voice, and a man, presumably Anderson joined them on site.

"Those are ordinary scuff marks made by the door being too enthusiastically being thrown open by employees," Sherlock snorted. "Nothing sinister in that."

"How do you know?" Anderson shot back.

"Obvious. It's exactly the same distance away from the door hinge as the door is wide. Why do I have to explain things to imbeciles?" Sherlock said.

Gladstone was still whining, but John hushed her, still watching the verbal sparring match taking place between Sherlock and the members of the Yard.

"Anyway," Sherlock continued. "There's possibly some blood on that grate over there, I need a sample to test if it's human."

"Human?" Donovan looked around the room, aghast. "Isn't this a butchery?"

"Yes, I see you rather get my point on why that blood sample would be important," Sherlock said tersely. "Can we get with the program? I haven't got all day. Need to get my new assistant some things."

"Where did you even find an assistant willing to work with you?" Donovan sneered. "Is he really a doctor? Let's see some credentials, please!"

Then Gladstone barked, and everyone fell silent. She barked again and then sat down on top of the grate, staring at John. She whined again and nosed at the grate.

"Can it stop doing that?" Donovan asked. "Service dog, my arse."

"Gladstone is a service dog," John said slowly. "Is there any way to get underneath this butcher shop? A trap door, walk space, anything?"

"Not that we've found," Donovan snapped. "Why?"

"Because she only reacts like that when she's found someone trapped underneath rubble and wants us to help get them out," John said. "She's only urgent about getting our attention if there's a chance we can save them and we're not just recovering bodies. Which means –"

"There's someone trapped down there," Sherlock finished. "And they're still alive."


	5. The Cat Who Walks Through Walls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John find a man in a locked room with the help of Gladstone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been trying to update this more, but I keep getting distracted by other things. It is being updated, though! Here's a new chapter, and I hope you're still enjoying it.

By the time Lestrade got back to the crime scene carrying a paper cup in one hand, most of the officers present were frantically searching for a way down. The grate was far too small to accommodate an adult human person's body, and it was welded shut besides, and had been for a long time. 

"What's going on?" Lestrade asked tiredly, and slumped.

Sgt. Donovan went aside to fill him in. John didn't pay attention to anything else but Sherlock, who was crouching on the floor and staring at the grate. He reached out and banged on the grate with his knuckles. Frowning, he lay closer to the floor and did it again.

"Can you hear how the echoes reverberate?" he asked John.

"What?" John asked, getting down beside him.

"Listen," Sherlock said.

John put his ear right next to the grate, and Sherlock knocked on the grate. There was a dull noise that echoed down below, but John couldn't tell what he was supposed to be hearing. Sherlock kept rapping with his knuckles, eyes closed, as he tried to calculate something that John thought seemed impossible.

Then, Gladstone came and put her head next to John's. At the next echo of Sherlock's fist, her ears perked up. She whuffed low in her throat, and that echoed too. She barked, louder this time. As she made more noise, the Yarders all turned to look at the three of them lying on the floor.

Before anyone could say anything, both Sherlock and Gladstone shot to their feet and rushed back out of the room and into the pub area. John followed, and saw Gladstone pawing at the trapdoor that lead down to the beer cellar. Sherlock hooked his hand around the ring and pulled it up and away.

"We already checked down there for evidence," Anderson protested.

"Obviously not well enough," Sherlock said, and disappeared down into the dark space.

Shaking his head, John searched the bar area, scorched as it was, and turned up a torch. Miraculously, it still worked, and he followed them down. The fire hadn't touched anything down here, it seemed. The brick walls and metal door had preserved it somewhat. Like Len's place, the _Waddling Duck_ , it had big barrels of beer lined up with feeds to take the beer up to the taps above. There were spare barrels of the local favourites around, but not much else besides.

Some of the Yarders, including Lestrade and Donovan climbed down to help investigate, but it didn't seem to be helping. There was nothing to see down there except dust and dirt. Sherlock was getting more and more frustrated, and taking it out on the Yarders.

Time to do his job, then.

"Sherlock," John said, coming up and resting a hand on Sherlock's elbow. "Calm down. There's something we must be missing, is all."

"Missing," Sherlock spat. "All that's down here is beer!"

"Then there must be something about the beer that can tell us something," John said with a shrug. "If it really is the only thing down here."

Sherlock stopped suddenly and looked at John.

"John, you're brilliant," he said, and rushed over to look at the kegs.

John's heart thumped at Sherlock's words, holding a hand to his breast to keep it from leaping straight out of his chest. What kind of reaction was _that_ to a compliment?

Sherlock was shining the light from his mobile at the barrels and muttering to himself. John followed and looked down at the barrels as well. They were all stamped with their manufacturer and the date on the ends. Most of them, John recognized as local London beers, and one Cornish cider. However, the one in the corner made him frown.

"That's an American beer," John said. "Why would we have an American beer on tap?"

Lestrade came up beside him and made a face. "Why indeed."

Sherlock rapped the side of the keg. "Still full."

"Probably never been drunk," Lestrade said, his face still twisted with dislike.

"Perhaps not," Sherlock said, running over to the stairs and popping his head out of the trapdoor. "Let's see if it has a corresponding tap."

John looked up, and saw that it had a pipe leading up. Then Sherlock came down and grinned at them.

"There is not a tap up there for this beer, so I must conclude that this keg is down here for a reason other than being served." Sherlock rubbed his hands together with excitement.

"Let's try and move it then," Lestrade said, and John moved to help.

Now that they were looking, they could see where someone had previously moved it, marks on the floor which had been hidden in the gloom. Sherlock muttered under his breath about the differences between drag marks which were witnessed here, and marks for replacing the kegs, which were on the others. 

The tile underneath the keg had an indent in the middle with a ring that could pull up. Lestrade got ahold of it and pulled. Underneath was a metal door with a padlock on it.

"We need bolt-cutters," John said.

"Or the key," Sherlock said. "Maggie Jones must have it on her key ring."

"Which is in evidence," Lestrade said with a sigh. "I'll get Anderson to go get it."

"I think the ambulance just arrived, sir," Donovan said. "They should have bolt-cutters."

The ambulance attendants did, in fact, have bolt cutters, and soon they were pulling up the metal door and looking at the tiny ladder that went down into the darkness. Someone had gotten everyone a police-issued torch, which was just as well, since John's was going out.

"I should go first," John said. "I'm a doctor."

"What if there's still something dangerous down there?" Lestrade asked. "I should go first."

"He was an army doctor, Lestrade," Sherlock said. "But by all means, go first, in your official capacity."

"I will," Lestrade said. "Doctor Watson can follow me."

Sherlock huffed and rolled his eyes, but there was nothing else to do. Lestrade went down first, and John had to bite his lip from automatically barking out an order to go faster. He was used to people moving faster than this in emergency situations. But this was not his jurisdiction, not really.

There was a narrow little hallway leading back in the direction of the kitchen, and the ceiling was low. John didn't have to duck, but ahead of him, Lestrade grumbled and shielded his head.

Eventually, they found a door that was locked from the outside. The bolt cutters were procured once more, and then, they finally found the room below the grate. There was barely any light, and it was damp and chilly. There was no apparent threat. A form on the floor stirred, and John rushed to the side of the prisoner. The figure raised his head, revealing a man with his hands handcuffed behind his back. 

John quickly accessed him.

"Dehydrated, becoming hypothermic," John said. "Malnourished and probably going through withdrawal."

"Can we move him?" Lestrade asked.

"Yes, and as fast as we can," John determined. He addressed the man himself. "Hello? Hello, can you hear me? My name is John Watson. I'm a doctor. We're here to help you."

The man groaned, but didn't regain consciousness.

"No evidence of spinal fractures," John said. "There's only one way to get him out anyway, so I suggest we do it quickly. He's not going to last much longer in these conditions."

"How did he last this long to begin with?" Lestrade asked, grunting as he got a shoulder underneath the man's arm. "He's been down here longer than three days. There's no water down here."

"There's blood," John pointed out grimly as he pointed up at the grate. "Might want to run an HIV screen on him as well."

Lestrade made a face, and John went to help him carry the man toward the ladder. Skinny as he was, they still couldn't climb the ladder and carry him at the same time. Sherlock rigged up some sort of pulley system to lower down to them. Meanwhile, the ambulance attendants lowered down emergency blankets.

Once they got him up, the ambulance attendants took charge of him and whisked him off to the nearest hospital, which was St. Bart's. John shook his head. He could hardly believe that this was the type of thing Sherlock had to deal with on a regular basis.

Gladstone lapped at his face as soon as his head emerged from below ground.

"I'm alright, girl," he said, scratching her ruff. "Just let me up, will you, girl?"

"She's a real live hero," Donovan said dryly.

"She is," John said. "Saved more lives than me, probably."

"You know, we're just taking the freak's word on it that you're a military doctor," Donovan said with a slight sneer.

"Don't call him that," John said. "If it wasn't for him, you'd never have found the entrance, nor would you have realized that there was a person trapped down there to begin with."

"You're the one who found it, mate," Lestrade broke in, shooting a quelling look at Donovan.

"But without Sherlock, I wouldn't be here," John replied.

And then he followed Sherlock away from the crime scene, Gladstone at his heels. 

***

"That was excellent, John!" Sherlock crowed as soon as they were back in the flat. "You handled them all perfectly. I couldn't have asked for a better assistant."

"That's good," John said. "So, when you consult with them, are they always that rude to you?"

"Oh, Donovan and Anderson?" Sherlock questioned, then waved his hand dismissively. "They don't matter. I just need Lestrade. He's a passable detective, and at least he listens to me."

"And... don't we have to go down to the Met to give our statements?" John asked.

Sherlock sighed, "Technically, yes. But the investigation isn't over yet, so I don't see why we should right now. Who knows when this will wrap up? It's turning into quite the interesting case."

"What happens next?" John asked.

"We wait for the person we found to wake up, and for forensics to test the blood we found," Sherlock said. "Also, we should question Maggie Jones, now that we have more evidence against her."

"When you say 'we,' do you mean...?"

"Lestrade's crew, I suppose, but we'll be there if I insist hard enough," Sherlock replied. "And I will. Haven't had a case this engaging for ages."

"And they just let you?" John asked, frowning. "Wait, if you're a consulting detective, do they pay you?"

Sherlock shrugged again. "The Met doesn't. Sometimes I get paying clients through my website."

"How do you pay bills?" John asked faintly. "Afford a flat in this area of London?"

"Didn't you know? Mrs. Hudson gives me a deal. Her husband was going to be executed in Florida." Sherlock seemed very cavalier about all this. John felt anxiety welling up in his chest.

"And how am I supposed to be paid for being an assistant, then?" John asked tightly.

"I thought we'd work it out later," Sherlock said airily. "Come on, John, there's a case to solve!"

"No, wait, Sherlock..." John said helplessly.

His heart was hammering now, a sudden flight-or-flight response hitting him in the chest and squeezing. He felt as if he were trapped, almost claustrophobic, and Sherlock was still fluttering around the flat without a care while John started hyperventilating. Gladstone whined, at his side at the first signs of distress.

He couldn't do this, not with Sherlock's laissez-faire approach to budgeting. He wanted to argue, but was so acutely aware that he owed Sherlock, and if he complained enough, could very well end up on the street again.

John hated owing somebody enough that he felt the need to hold back his opinions.

He reached down and buried his fingers in Gladstone's ruff. She leaned her weight against his leg, and John concentrated on that and tried to breath deeply and regularly, in and out. He would be useless as an assistant if he kept having panic attacks.

Sherlock, who had been talking a mile a minute and gesturing widely, suddenly realized that his audience wasn't as attentive as he'd imagined and came over.

"You've begun to sweat around your hairline and your pulse is up by 20 percent," Sherlock said, eyes narrowing. "Something is making you anxious."

"It's nothing," John said sharply, a warning.

"It can't be nothing," Sherlock said. "Physiological responses are very telling. Did you know that you use different sweat glands when having a stress reaction?"

"Yes, actually. Doctor, remember?" John said.

"Then you know that I can tell that you're reacting to an environmental trigger and it is not, in fact, as you say, 'nothing.'" Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him.

"It's nothing," John repeated, glaring for good measure.

"Let's see, what could have set you off," Sherlock continued as if he hadn't heard John. "You obviously weren't listening when I was talking about the interrogation, so it must have been something else. What were we talking about... Oh! Finances. You're worried about our financial state, or, more specifically, your own."

"Sherlock," John said. "I don't want to discuss it now."

"Oh, but we should," Sherlock said. "You're being very dull, John. We have nothing to worry about on that front."

"Yes, well there is very little _evidence_ of this, so excuse me for being a little worried!" John replied angrily.

"Don't worry, Mrs. Hudson would never evict us," Sherlock said airily. "She owes me too much."

"I'm beginning to think that owing you something isn't a good situation to be in," John said grimly.

Sherlock stopped suddenly, as if something was happening that hadn't occurred to him.

"You're thinking of leaving," Sherlock said quietly.

"No," John said. "But there's a difference between having the option and saying, 'I think I'll stay,' and not having the option of leaving even if you would stay anyway."

"I don't see it," Sherlock said. "If you would stay either way, why does it matter?"

"It just does, Sherlock!" John said, voice raised. "It just does."

"But you do want to stay," Sherlock said, and John caught the look of vulnerability in his eyes before he looked away.

"Yes, of course I do," John said heavily.

And wasn't that just the problem. He was already in too deep, and he'd only been here for one night. Therapists had told him he'd had trust issues, of all things, and here he was just going along with this madman on whatever adventure he wanted. John hardly knew anything about him, but damn him, he was the best thing to happen to John since he'd been shot.

"I don't understand," Sherlock said quietly, looking down.

"Sherlock –"

Sherlock's phone went off. John stared at it, and Sherlock frowned, picking it up.

"It's Lestrade," Sherlock said. "He never calls, he knows I prefer to text."

Sherlock answered, and John held his breath, listening to the sound of his heart slowing down again, the stress washing away with the return of the case. There was something really wrong with him, if the threat of danger actually soothed his nerves.

"What is it, Lestrade –" Sherlock snapped, but cut off the rest of what he was saying to listen. His frown grew deeper. "No, that's impossible."

A pause as Lestrade continued talking.

"We'll be there right away." Sherlock looked up at John. "The man we rescued today has been murdered."

"But he was in the hospital," John protested.

"Exactly," Sherlock said. "We need to get there now, before the scene's been contaminated by Anderson's ineptitude."

John went to get his coat on again.

"That was very quick," John commented. "Whoever it was only had a couple of hours to find him and kill him."

"We still have his body, and the crime scene," Sherlock said. "We can work with that. Not everything is lost, although I would have liked to talk to that man."

They got another cab to St. Bart's, Sherlock parting the crowded street with ease and John following after him. Lestrade was waiting in the hospital foyer for them, and he began talking as they all made their way to the lift.

"Chaps, he's been identified," Lestrade said. "And it gets pretty serious after this, and I'm not sure what to make of it. This guy was an undercover cop with the narcotics crew."

"Was he missing for long?" Sherlock asked.

"That's the thing," Lestrade said. "He wasn't bloody well missing, or reported missing by his coworkers. In fact, some of them seem to think he was still on the job today – checked in this morning, as he does every few days. Now we can't find him, and it's making me wonder if the guy who checked in was actually him."

Sherlock nodded. "The crime scene?"

"Follow me," Lestrade nodded them down a hallway.

They came into a room and Lestrade added, "He was in this room, all hooked up to IV's. Hadn't woken up yet. There were nurses constantly checking up on him, there was a police guard on the door once we figured out who this guy was, and the cameras show us nothing of what happened."

"Where were the cameras pointing?" Sherlock asked.

"You can see them, there and there. This whole hallway is covered," Lestrade slumped. "No one except the nurses and a single doctor are on that camera. Obviously we have anyone who entered the room in custody for questioning, but not a single one can tell us what happened. It's as if a ghost killed him."

"There's a window," John pointed out.

John went over and looked out. There was nothing to hang onto, no balcony or anything. They were three stories up and it looked as if a person who entered the window would also need wings. John sighed and turned back to look at the equipment.

"Looks like I was wrong," he muttered, then began examining the medical equipment in the room. None of it looked as if it were tampered with, and he said as much to Lestrade.

Sherlock stalked over to the same window John had been examining.

"You might not be wrong, John," Sherlock said. "Someone tampered with this latch – it won't close properly."

"It could have been like that before," Lestrade said.

"Give a patient recovering from hypothermia a room with a faulty window?" Sherlock said. "I don't think so – and if you ask the nurses, I'm certain at least one would be able to tell you that it worked fine the last time they checked."

"That doesn't prove anything," Lestrade said.

"No," Sherlock said, with a smile of pure excitement. "No it doesn't."

**Author's Note:**

> [My Tumblr](http://testosterone-tea.tumblr.com/)
> 
>  
> 
> Fanart of Doc Watson and Gladstone by [bluebellofbakerstreet](http://bluebellofbakerstreet.tumblr.com/post/117759917865/doc-watson-and-gladstone-inspired-by-the-stranger)


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